Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Deco Japan: Shaping Japanese Women, 1920-1945


It’s hard to believe that this time last year I was putting the finishing touches on my undergraduate thesis. This paper discussed the intersection of civic pride and literary aspirations in the form of SimonettaVespucci, a woman who lived in 15th century Florence and might have been the model for many of Botticelli’s beauties. It might be even harder to believe that I was instantly reminded of Simonetta when I went to Deco Japan: Shaping Art and Culture, 1920-1945 at the Japan Society in New York this past Thursday. Fair warning, as an exhibit it’s a little sloppy and stuffy—some items were mislabeled, some wall text discussed pieces that were put in other rooms entirely, and there was not a wealth of background detail for the casual observer. But the objects on display were extraordinary, both in their beauty and in their creativity.

What interested me the most in this exhibit was the continued and repeated emphasis on displaying the ideal woman while men were not represented at all. The painters in the first gallery practiced a style called Nihonga, in which the painter used traditional media to depict a modern subject. In the case of this exhibit, we saw plenty of stylish women, perhaps a quotation of the many woodblock print series of great beauties. These paintings were like breaths of fresh air, revelatory in their newness and astonishing in their technique, images painted on a panel or on silk and attached to traditional silk scrolls. The viewer saw women at play on the beach, at the aquarium, and at the ski lodge—all activities, the curators mention, that the government endorsed, since they symbolically promoted Japan’s dominance over land and sea. The most striking painting, I felt, was Miki Suizan’s Junpu, which shows two fashionable ladies sailing in a light breeze.

                                                   Miki Suizan, Junpu, The Flapper Girl

This painting, one of the first objects on view, got me thinking about Simonetta. More directly, my first reaction to this painting (and to the overall Nihonga style) was that it was better than any contemporary fashion illustration. The clothes are perfectly observed but still stylized. Anyone wanting to construct a pattern for an early 1930s day dress needs to look no further than a Japanese Art Deco painting. The red dress struck me as being suitably Botticelliean, which reminded me of the spectacular Youth and Beauty exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum this past fall. That exhibit presented American decorative arts from the 1920s (it seems that the 1920s and 1930s are just long enough ago to be appreciating a vogue in the museum world). That exhibit made the case that many American artists were inspired by the Italian Renaissance and its championing of the classical form. Were the artists who practiced Nihonga indirectly inspired by this same obsession with Renaissance aesthetics? Why else would they show women involved in sports and dancing?

One answer to this question would be the more ominous side of Japanese Art Deco: many of the items in this exhibit were either sponsored by the fascist government, or stuck very close to their program. Futagi Seiho’s incredible bird of paradise box is an advertisement for the emperor’s rejuvenated power and a sign of how Japan’s colonial ambitions had already reached to the South Pacific. One wonders what radical Japanese art at the time was like, and if an exhibit about that would have centered so much around Westernized depictions of traditional Japanese subjects.

But to bring this all back to Simonetta, we must look at the moga, the modern girl or flapper who was at the center of this exhibit. Kobayakawa Kiyoshi’s Kaidan (Staircase) shows a wealthy Japanese woman enjoying the empire’s largesse: she is young, beautiful, leaving her home to go to a party or perhaps a show, and though she wears a traditional kimono has access to the latest Western accessories, imports no doubt directly related to the rise of Japan’s industrial power in the early 20th century. She is the epitome of the modern, government-approved wife. 

                                                         Kobayakawa Kiyoshi, Kaidan, The Design Observer Group

And then there are the transgressors: the professional, aloof dancers featured in Enomoto Chikatoshi’s Florida series (so named for the popular Tokyo nightclub where the girls performed); or the muscular, voluptuous nudes of Ishikawa Toraji. One painting in this section showed a woman reclining in bed, covered only in a veil of imported black French lace, a second woman (a servant?) sitting next to her, echoing Olympia or The Venus of Urbino.

                                  Enomoto Chikatoshi, Florida, The Design Observer Group  

                                         Ishikawa Toraji, Odori, The Balustrade  

Why is it that in periods of perceived renewal, whether it be Simonetta’s Florence or the moga’s Tokyo, do women become a site for nationalistic ambitions? Is it the hope that they will bear model children to serve the new state? Or the misogynistic fear that their charms will distract the model man from his “destiny” of greatness? In my thesis, I discussed how in literature and in art Simonetta was either wearing the guise of a fertility goddess or, after she died in real life, was depicted as a true goddess, watching over and inspiring artists loyal to the ruling Medici family. She became both a political and erotic object, but never a full person.* Despite all the daring behavior the moga exhibited, they were used for the exact same purpose in the art of Art Deco Japan.

*This is, of course, a very 21st century complaint. In some poetry written about Simonetta, a glimmer of what might have been her real personality shines through, but Florentine wives ultimately had fewer rights than their own children.
   
                                           

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Baroque Pearls

Lately I've been thinking about how fashion can blur reality and fiction, turning human women into decorative objets d'art. I understand that the industry I want to enter isn't necessarily the most progressive when it comes to women's sexuality. When men dress well, they dress exactly like themselves: the dress suit throws the male body into a dramatic monochrome (black and white or navy and white), and the tie makes no uncertain reference to their anatomy. But women are different: we become flowers, canvases, even (if you're tacky) animals. But we never look like ourselves. Clothes frame and form our anatomy but usually don't reference it directly.

Anyway, all of those heavy thoughts aside, I started thinking about ornamentation. While doodling in class one day, I remembered the dress for my favorite Barbie, a Juliet doll:


I also had my favorite new designer, Mary Katrantzou, on the brain, with a subliminal side of Louis Vuitton's 2011 Resort collection. So I came up with these (click to enlarge):

For the ball gown, I wanted real pearls to border the trompe 'oeil print--just to be whimsical. The daywear, of course, does not have pearl beads. Not sure how I feel about the last one: the top reads a little Mardi Gras to me (not that is EVER a problem). I would wear the first pink dress all day every day if I could. What do you guys think about these designs? Would you wear them? :)

Monday, March 7, 2011

House of Drecoll

It's always fun "rediscovering" obscure fashion houses from the first half of the century. (But maybe that's just me.) Anyway, at the Brooklyn Museum's American High Style exhibit last summer, I fell in love with this dress from the House of Drecoll:


According to the Met's website, Drecoll was founded in 1896, eventually becoming one of Paris's showier houses. I have to confess, the dress doesn't look that great in person--it was probably expertly steamed and styled for this photo! After awhile, this popped into my head:




I just love how well the body came out--she's partly based on the Birth of Venus, which, since it's the subject of my thesis, hangs on the wall next to my desk. I don't really know where the colors came from. Perhaps I was inspired by this stunning Lanvin?
 
 

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Asia On My Mind

In fashion, Asia is everywhere. Many of New York's hottest designers are of Asian descent: Derek Lam. Jason Wu. Anna Sui. Doo-ri Chung. Alexander Wang. Naeem Khan. Wayne.  This month's Vogue has a spread totally devoted to the industry's top Asian models. And, of course, apparel manufacturing has moved from North America to Southeast Asia and the Indian subcontinent. In the Wester fashion industry's subconscious, we see the entire continent as a source for that stereotypical, lithe, shy girl with mysterious hair, or maybe the land of cheap labor and even cheaper knock-offs, or the place of origin for the brilliant children of immigrant families. But we never think of Asians producing clothing--much less couture--for their own market. That's about to change.


In a piece for T Magazine, fashion writer Cathy Horyn visits the workshop and studio of Guo Pei, China's premiere couturier. Horyn describes Pei as a "a study in Asian poise and etiquette." The whole article is tinged with an unfortunate racism, but Pei's character study serves to illustrate a larger point: caught between a love for traditional Chinese design, and an unimaginative but creative industrial infrastructure inherited from Mao's regime, Pei has set herself up to rival any Marchesa or Dior creation.


Guo Pei began her education at a moment in China where fashion and glamor didn't exist: apparel-making was a trade, not a craft. She enrolled in Beijing Light Industry School in 1982. When she asked her teacher how to make a large skirt, "'I don’t know, but maybe you can find a solution in costumes for opera,'  Guo Pei recalled. ‘‘At that moment, I fell in love with big things." Her large imagination eventually led to her opening her own studio in 1997. About four years ago, she took advantage of China's growing industry. Now, as Cathy Horyn points out, where Paris houses are starting to cut back on hand sewing to save costs, Pei can take advantage of cheap labor to create her dramatic pieces. One dress took 50,000 hours to embroider. While her designs are a little tacky--almost as if a Disney princess vomited glitter on an Alexander McQueen dress--no one can doubt the originality of Pei's vision. It's hard to imagine Beijing ever becoming a new Paris--especially with the instability that rapid industrialization brings (that cheap labor isn't going to be cheap for long--but there's no reason why designers in secondary markets like China won't be mentioned in the same breath as the Paris greats 20 years from now. (You can view Pei's Winter/Fall 2010 show here.)

Reading Pei's story reminded me of an Indonesian designer I caught sight of on Jezebel, Tex Saverio. According to his official blog, Saverio is 26 years old. He dropped out of high school--which his parents weren't too happy about--and eventually graduated from BUNKA Fashion School. His creations easily rival Alexander McQueen's in spirit and maybe even in technical achievement:

Oh, and did we mention that he's only 26?

Pei, Savario, and no doubt many other Asian designers are hungry for the big leagues. Luckily for them, they may not have to go to Paris to get there.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Some Sketches

I thought you all would want to see the backlog of images I have. I happen to think it's depressing that these drawings span a year and they are the ACCUMULATED OUTCOME of any formal drawing I have done. So many great designs are hidden in my notes. My process is to randomly draw until I hit on a motif, draw it obsessively until I get it right, and, if I don't put it into a formal illustration, then forget about it. If I don't feel the dress--its colors, its fabrics--then I don't want to hear about it again.

First up: A minimalist Byzantine gown. I drew a doodle of it on one of the first days of Italian class junior year, then eventually put it down on fancy 11"x14" marker paper.

The purple stripe in the middle is meant to imitate the clavi, seen above in the mosaic from San Apollinare Nuovo. Clavi generally denoted rank but eventually became decorative elements.

 Then there's this sketch, also from sophomore year. This is Esmerelda [sic] one of the main characters in the epic I'm constantly writing in her head. I never colored the sketch in because I loved the face too much.


Next up: a drawing I did of the lake at the beginning of this year. I thought it would be really awesome to indicate texture by using different types of crosshatching...but I got bored.



Then there's a sketch I did this summer. I was really inspired by some gorgeous Art Nouveau glass vases from the Philadelphia Museum of Art:

One day at work this summer, the idea for a blouse suddenly flew into my head: a blue-gray crinkle chiffon kimono top with attached crimson satin belt and a violet shell. And, hey, why not make it into a ball gown? This was also the day when I had stroke-like symptoms due to heat and stress. Oh, wait, I didn't tell you about that? Fun times.




I know that the final drawing is not in the right proportions (the left arm, for one, is too long), but I'm really happy with how the face came out. I was trying to imitate some contemporary Georges Barbier images. Think I was successful?

The next sketch was a perfect storm of inspiration. There was some Jezebel headline called "Get This Girl A Dress!" about how apparently no one would lend out clothes to Christina Hendricks except for tacky Zac Posen because no one makes samples in her size. (Which is dumb.) Now, I happen to have a picture of this Christian Lacroix dress on my wall (I promise it looks nicer in the Vogue photograph):


All photos Style.com

Anyway, for some reason, I was thinking about the Jezebel article when stepping out of the shower when this image hit me of a sassy Christina on the red carpet in a gray and black dress that fully covered her boobs, with lace like the Lacroix dress, and little blue, yellow, and green rhinestones on the lace (because...why not?).

One day, I'll make a formal sketch of it. Maybe...

Finally, a dress that had been stewing in my head for awhile. The pattern came to me in a flash: clusters of some sort of flowering branch that, from far away, look like an abstract or camo pattern.


The idea for the dress was to have the back be made out of three panels, like a Watteau back, but not pleated. The dress would be made out of a slate blue duchess silk satin (it's a heavy satin, not liquid like bridal satin), embroidered with gold matte leather sequins. The character that I designed this dress for is named Dove. She is a sex bomb and is very, very French. So why not give the dress an olive branch motif?


I picked up the design again on the first day of classes. Somewhere along the line, I decided to add two back panels, to give the dress a sporty look. Now it's made of seven pieces: two front panels joined at the center front, one central back panel, two bottom side panels and and two top side panels:


I'm not really happy with how the drawing as a whole came out, but you get the idea. I'm going to redraw it one day and I will try to figure out how to make the pattern I want...

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Premet

Too much has happened since I last wrote. I had a fun internship this summer (that might turn into a job?), I'm working on a thesis about how the Medici circle, especially Botticelli and his Birth of Venus, used the image of a woman named Simonetta Vespucci (distant cousin of Amerigo), I just finished a run on Rocky Horror as a Trixie and a Transie, and now I'm really fucking tired.

Anyway. I was researching the early 20th century design house Drecoll (why? You'll find out soon enough.), when I came across this website with sketches from a house called Premet, a Parisian house that was open from 1911-1931. All of the images on antique print dealer Elisabeth Legge's site are from 1921-1930, but most of the sketches look like they're from 1930, anticipating the tight, clean geometry of the rest of the decade.

What really strikes me the most is the unnamed designer's brilliant use of color. The above slate blue and red is an enviable color combination, and there are better ones that follow:

The geometry and the colors of this one are strongly reminiscent of the Fall 2010 Balenciaga collection. (Except the Premet is obviously superior and not ugly.)

What surprises me most is the fussiness of some of the clothes from the 20s. The early part of the decade was known as the "costume period," where the famous knee-length, dropped waist was paired with the 1910s's taste for "Oriental" embellishment. Minimalism really only came about in the late 20s, with the advent of Chanel's little black dress. But here, we see the house's taste for false hanging sleeves that recall the late Gothic period:

And a Getty image from 1926:

But my favorites are the evening gowns: light, clever, sophisticated and elegant.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

"'Alitalia' and 'helpfulness' do not go together."

So spoke a very nice guy at the agroturismo that we stayed at in Sicily. First of all, let me say that I love Sicily. I think I left my heart in Palermo. I will strong-arm Rahm my future husband Rahm no, actually, my future husband to go to Cefalu on our honeymoon. After I left Bologna, I met up with my family and we stayed at a gorgeous agroturismo just outside of Licata (on the southeast part of Sicily--it's in between Catania and Agrigento) for five days and then hung out in Palermo for 3 days. We saw Greek ruins, Byzantine art, Baroque churches, Art Nouveau theatres, and even dipped our feet in the Tyrhhenian. But holy fuck were the last 48 hours of the trip a schlep. Sicily was Odysseus's last major stop on his way home before he was imprisoned by Calypso for seven years. The pastures of the Sun God were on Sicily, as were the monsters Scylla and Charybdis. I'm 100% certain that we met both.

We went to the beautiful beach town Cefalu on our last day there (pictures soon, I promise). After having some extremely fancy gelato on the beach, I offered to walk to the train station to figure out when the next train to Palermo was, forgetting that the station was more than a bit of an uphill walk, which would be very hard for my mom, who has trouble walking long distances, to make. Anyway, I get to the station and some guy is standing out there and starts talking. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or talking to someone behind me and quite frankly I wasn't in the mood to find out, especially since, after I went inside, he was still talking to the spot where I had been standing. Anyway, mission accomplished, I go back down into town. We decide to take a taxi to the train station. There weren't any taxis at the stand, so I called one. The dispatcher told me to look for a cab with a certain number. After a few minutes, a taxi (that wasn't ours) came to the stand and we decided to take it because we didn't feel like waiting. (Do you people understand how GOOD it feels to be in a civilized city where you can get a cab whenever you want?) Anyway, we get to the station and as soon as we get out, some guy comes up to me and asks, "Were you the people at Piazza Garibaldi?" "Um... yeah?" Then he started yelling at me for not waiting for the cab that was supposed to get us, and what the fuck was our problem, etc. (our cab driver, a very sweet lady, had told us business was slow so I guess that's why he was pissed.) She jumped in and said, "Oh, she doesn't speak Italian" and told us to go inside. They fought for a bit, she won and left, and then we heard the other cab driver bitching very loudly outside. Whatever. Then, two minutes later, the guy who had been talking at me (Scylla?) when I went to the train station the first time bounded into the station, with a very worried-looking older man in tow, literally got into my face and started yelling about how could we have left him, and he was waiting in Piazza Garibaldi for three hours (more like three minutes), and why didn't we ask for the number of the cab, etc. Basically, I lied to him a little and said we thought the first cab was ours, but he wouldn't go away. Finally the older man, who had been trying to calm us down, asked us where we had been waiting and then basically said, "Oh, you were mistaken, you were in Piazza C." (Total lie.) Which calmed Scylla down. He shook my hand, left, and the older man leaned over to me and said that he was "malatto" (sick). Then we heard more extremely loud bitching outside, so I started cursing in Italian, which I can assure you surprised everyone in the waiting room. We then had a peaceful train ride to Palermo. Considering what happened next,I think that Scylla gave us the malocchio.

We wanted a memorable last meal in Palermo. We got it. We wandered a block away from our hotel to a piazza where there were a bunch of restaurants. Mom saw one that had a huge antipasto buffet and she was all, "Oh, the antipasto of my youth! Can we go?" Before we could say yes or no, the owner, Charybdis, who was very friendly but seemed a little bit...off... invited us in. And by invited I mean forced us to sit down at a table. We started talking in Italian, and he kept on putting his hand on my shoulder and being otherwise touchy-feely. I turned to him to ask him to stop and found the powerful stench of wine and beer on his breath. He asked, "Can I get you Sicilian-style veal rolletini. It's the best?" "Uh, no, we're not really interested." I gave him our order. Every 5 minutes:

"Do you not want Sicilian-style veal rolletini? Only the best for you."
"No. We want what we ordered."
Charybdis retreats to his corner table where he drunkenly mutters over the receipts and takes a swig from his huge jug of beer.
"Claudia [the waitress]! Get x for that table!" Claudia totters over with four other orders and does as commanded.
Charybdis saunters over us. "Do you want veal rolletini."
"No. We want what we ordered."

Our food eventually came. I got the past I ordered but Rachel and Mom got... veal rolletini. We wait half an hour for our garlic bread, which never came, and Dad's steak. Which had magically turned into veal rolletini. And we were charged 105 euro for the pleasure.

We had to get up at 5:30 in the morning to get to the airport. The flight from Palermo to Rome passed without event. We get to Rome and check the board--our 12:45 flight had been pushed back to 5:40. Well, that was weird. We went to the Alitalia desk. What had happened to our flight? Could we change to another one? The people at the Alitalia desk were studiously unhelpful. It was a Delta flight, so why should they help us? Except it was an Alitalia flight. Oh? Then the flight got pushed back even further to 8:40. We went to the Alitalia desk again, and they didn't help us, again. Finally we walked to another counter and found the Delta desk. They switched us to a flight to Atlanta with a connecting flight to New York. We get to Atlanta. Do you know what was cancelled? Our flight. We were automatically moved up to the next flight to New York, but no one could tell us where we could get our boarding passes. We were so tired that we sat around waiting at gate 21, not gate 12. Somewhere between running to gate 12 and trying not to knife anyone for this incredible stupidity, Rachel got me french fries and chicken fingers from Checkers. Ah, the first taste of home. I had been imprisoned in a land of good food and fresh vegetables! Nothing could have been better than potatoes lovingly fried in lard. Anyway, we got on the plane. As we found out when we landed in La Guardia, our luggage didn't. We just gave up and went home. (Our luggage is coming this evening.)

Maybe it was the fact that I hadn't slept for 24 hours but I almost cried when I stepped out of the airport. Home! The beautiful smell of New York (smog and gas), the constant murmer of traffic, the wide, long streets, and the shiny modern buildings. I have a very love-hate relationship with New York (as in, I love to hate it), but I think I finally understand why outsiders are so fascinated by it. There really is nothing else like my beautiful crystal city.